


The Academy of Vengeance

by cerebel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new school year has started, and Nick Fury has picked out a new personal pupil: a dancer named Loki, who he thinks can match wits with his favorites, Natasha Romanova and Clint Barton. There's an important dance that will center on Loki, and more than just their futures might be at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First day of school

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ CHAPTER TITLES CAREFULLY. This won't be entirely in a linear order; certain chapters will be deviations from the main universe of the fic in order to explore little AUs with different pairings. 
> 
> All of the Avengers will make appearances, eventually, and pairings will come later. Tags reflect what the story is now. 
> 
> I am not a dancer and my expertise is gained from movies, so please forgive any egregious mistakes.

“Loki. Stay behind.” 

Scene: One stage, lit for performance, but no scenery. Five young dancers slipping away into the wings. Three judges in front. And one lingering just left of center-stage. He is slim and strong -- obviously strong. But he’s hesitant and nervous, and he doesn’t hold the stage the way he should be. 

One of the judges, dark-skinned, an eyepatch over one eye, steps up onto the stage.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Your brother inspired the choreography.” 

“Not all of it.” Loki’s tone is defensive.

“Of course not all of it; the day Thor is that flexible is the day he can dance both parts in a ballroom all by himself.” 

Nick Fury, Director of the School of the Arts, considers the boy before him.

“You didn’t do very well,” he says. 

Loki nods. “I know.” His throat chokes up tight, almost cutting off the last word. There are no tears in his eyes. He is calm.

“Except on the parts where you weren’t trying to be Thor. What were you focusing on? That he got in, and so you were going to get in too?” 

Loki’s mouth thins, and he stays quiet.

“Boy, you can be a prima donna in my school, but if you are, you have to dance at 150% of everyone else. You understand?” 

Another nod. 

“Do you have another dance?” 

Loki hesitates. “It’s not finished.” 

“Then show us what you got.” 

“Do you have Davey Jones, the Greencards--”

“You have an iPod, don’t you?” 

Loki fetches it. 

And then the three judges face him. Nick Fury, and two others who never gave him their names. A severe young woman with dark brown hair on the left -- she doesn’t even look at him. 

“It’s not finished,” says Loki again. 

“You ready?” 

_No_ , thinks Loki. “Yes.” He shuts them out of his mind. He forgets everything, and just calls to mind one other man. An old war veteran. One eye, like Fury. He bites his lip until he tastes blood. 

_I am a simple man, learned to work with my hands, out here on these waves..._

He starts with a few simple turns, and then dances. 

_Guess I’ve always known, I would die alone here, one cold November day._

He hears a door close at the back of the theatre. 

It’s a song about drowning. About being swallowed by the ocean, and not truly having anything else to live for. And that’s how he moves, like he’s alternately fighting and surrendering to the waves -- falling to the ground, and being drawn to his feet as though by a string. He leaps, fights to escape and then succumbs again. Nothing like the jazz routine he’d just done, with the others. He’d danced that like Thor would have. This one, he’s never shown to anyone. 

Unfortunately, that’s not completely a virtue. 

He forgets the choreography partway through, stalls with a few arm movements. And stalls more. And stalls again. Until he’s pretty sure he looks like a deranged octopus.

_Now the waves have snapped the mast, I’m taking water so fast, I let go of the line. And I can feel my father’s stare, from beyond the grave somewhere, as I fail him one last time._

Here. He remembers. 

Loki sinks. He brings a leg up and folds it over, and he stumbles -- flexible, but not balanced. Catches himself on his palms, and he turns it into part of the agony. 

_Cause I would never be the man he thought I should be, the lesser of his sons..._

Rolls onto his back, and he’s improvising, now. Spine rolls off of the stage, and then he’s on his feet again. Quick moves now, subdividing the beats of the music. Turning frenetic. 

Finally: a surrender. 

He breathes shallowly, and lifts his head. 

~*~

After Loki is gone:

“I have a good feeling about him,” says Fury, leaning back in his chair. 

The third judge, some bureaucratic asshole, says: “He isn’t the dancer that Thor is.” This deluded idiot doesn’t have the first idea of talent assessment. Fury glances to Hill, and she gives him a little amused look, still trying to pretend she hadn’t been crying. 

Hell, Fury had teared up a little himself. 

“You can teach technique,” he says. “Can’t teach soul, and Thor is as shallow as a birdbath, no matter how strong he is.” 

“Nonetheless,” says the bureaucrat, “he doesn’t meet the school’s standards.”

“Fine,” says Fury. “I’m using one of my directorial overrides.” 

The bureaucrat harrumphs, but there’s nothing he can do about it. 

~*~

It’s the first day of school, and everything is right with the world.

“Loki!” calls Thor, searching out his brother. Arrives at Loki’s door, where his little brother was first to move in this morning. Three hours of hauling boxes for Loki then for himself has left Thor tired and hungry, ready to go down and eat at Merle’s, the BBQ place up the street. 

Before he can knock on Loki’s door, it opens, and Loki slips out. He has on sweats, a tanktop, a light jacket. He looks like he’s going to rehearsal. 

“Sif, Fandral, Hogun and I are going to Merle’s,” he announces. “Come with us!”

“I have class.”

Loki presses past him.

“Class doesn’t start until tomorrow,” says Thor, somewhat bewildered. 

“Mine starts today.” 

~*~

“Mr. Odinson -- mind if I call you Loki? Just that I already have an Odinson, and I’d rather differentiate. Loki’s an interesting name.” 

Loki has already stretched, in the eerily empty classroom, performed a handful of warm-ups. Now he watches the deceptively mild face of his teacher -- or, at least, he imagines it’s deceptive, if Nick Fury assigned him here. 

“My name’s Phil,” he says. “Mr. Coulson. Either’s fine, since I’m taking the liberty. Do you know why Nick Fury assigned me to coach you privately?” 

“No,” says Loki. His first word. He’s guarded.

“Well, let’s test his theory.” 

The door opens and closes. Loki doesn’t glance back. 

“Director Fury,” says Coulson. “Just in time.” 

Coulson shrugs off his immaculate suit jacket. “I’m going to do a few moves,” he says, “and I want you to imitate them exactly.” 

Loki shoots a questioning look at Fury.

“Go on,” says Fury. “Pretend I’m not here.” He leans back against a wall.

Fat chance of that. Loki redirects his eyes forward, and watches Coulson take a few basic steps, arm movements. Easy things, but this apparently middle-aged, balding and entirely unremarkable man performs them with the grace and the technique of a longtime dancer. Loki’s respect for him is grudgingly raised. 

“Now,” says Coulson. “Your turn.” 

Loki steps to the spot in the room where Coulson began, and he stepped into the routine. It was simple, short, counted off by Coulson himself. 

But Loki stops short, to the sound of Fury’s laughter. A slight reddened tinge to his skin.

“I’m not making fun of you, Loki,” says Fury. “Just... damn.” 

“I see what you mean,” says Coulson, thoughtfully.

“Would anyone like to fill me in?” asks Loki, icily.

“In a minute,” says Coulson. “Just do one more.” 

They take him through a few ballet moves, a couple of hip-hop, one of classic jazz. Fury demonstrates it, in turn, and then Coulson, and then Loki follows. 

Finally, they stare at him, thoughtfully, for a moment or two. 

“Is there something _wrong_?” snaps Loki, finally. 

“Not at all.” Fury paces around him, and Loki remains perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back. “You’re a mimic,” says Fury. “You can imitate anyone’s style, can’t you? I saw you do Thor, during your audition.” 

Loki crosses his arms. “Isn’t that how you learn?” 

“Do you even want to _be_ here?” returns Fury. 

“I do,” says Loki.  
 “Prove it.”

“ _How?_ ” 

Fury gestures to Coulson. “I don’t want you to walk out of this room dancing like _him_.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Coulson, dryly.

“I want you to learn how to dance like _you_ ,” Fury concludes. “Your technique is behind, so you’ll be focusing on that. I’m also drawing up a curriculum for you on flexibility and gymnastics. On top of that, we’re gonna have personal sessions every Friday afternoon. 

“Loki, I’ve had a particular dance in mind for ten years, and I think I may have finally found the guy to be lead. Am I wrong?” 

Loki’s heartbeat jumps. Fear, perhaps, below the abrupt nervousness. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. 

“Neither do I.” Fury seems satisfied. 

~*~

They show up at the end of the first lesson. He’s already exhausted by the simple repetitions, the stretches. Coulson is calmer than a sphinx and tougher than a drill sergeant, and Loki’s never met anyone like him before. 

He limps into the locker room, unlaces his shoes, and begins to change clothes, easing his limbs through the motions.

He’ll be sore tomorrow.

The door creaks open. “Hey, Frosh,” comes a voice. Loki looks back, pulling his t-shirt on. An unfamiliar face. 

“Yeah?” he asks. He should be a senior in high school this year. Gonna take a lot of getting used to, this ‘freshman’ thing. 

The newcomer’s eyes land on him. “There you are,” he says. “Hey.” Steps inside, glances back behind him: “Yes, I’ll be right back. He’s changing. ... Nat!” He closes the door with perhaps more gusto than is strictly required. Steps up to Loki and extends a hand.

“Clint Barton. Fury’s hand-picked favorite, as of three years now. He’s a little startling. I know the feeling.” 

Loki accepts the outstretched hand with caution. “Loki,” he says. Then, after a hesitation, and through a strange thickness on his tongue: “Odinson.” 

“Listen,” says Clint, “he’ll work you to the bone, because he’s decided you’re special. And it might be worth it. I’m at least fifteen times the dancer I was because of his involvement. He’s tough, but he’s good.” Clint pauses for breath. “What I mean is -- it’s hard on someone who doesn’t know anyone here.” 

So that’s what this is. A pity mission. He feels his face grow hot. “I’m not a charity case.” He can handle the pressure.

Barton’s hands shoot up. “Whoa, hey, I didn’t mean it that way.” 

“I already know someone here.” 

“I know, you’re Thor’s brother.”

Loki’s mouth thins, at the phrasing. 

Barton signs. “Listen,” he says, “I’m getting off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry. What I’m saying is, me and Nat -- she’s one of the intensive ones too -- are going out to this Brazilian place. Fury pays a flat rate to them, to let us eat there for free. They feed us a well-rounded diet, better than the cafeteria, and he wrings all the calories out of us that he can. Point is, you’re invited. Now.” 

A long moment. Loki is tempted to refuse, to return to his dorm room and collapse.

“All right,” he says. Somewhat disarmed by Barton’s candor, perhaps, or by the idea that there’s someone like him, someone favored.

‘Nat’ turns out to be a redhead, an absolutely stunning woman. Older than Loki -- he would guess she’s got at least two, maybe three years on him.

“Natasha,” she says.

“Loki,” he says.

“Come on.”

And like that, they accept him. 

It’s so damned _simple_ , thinks Loki, over appetizers. Fruit and salad, served in a private room, without any of them having to order. So simple. They assume that because he’s a dancer, because he’s here, that he’s worth knowing. And yet, they don’t pry. No questions about his background or his dreams. They don’t ask how he feels about Fury. They fill the air with a steady stream of mild banter -- not raucous jokes like Thor, not loud, bragging stories. They’ve talked for almost half an hour when Loki tentatively matches their banter, makes a subtle sarcastic remark. A hint of a smile on Natasha’s face, a chuckle from Clint, and it feels _good_.

As the meal winds down, they all sit back, relax.

“I was the same way,” says Clint, their conversation focusing on the relative necessity of snacking throughout the day rather than having a few large meals. “When Fury picked me out of the crowd, I was hungry. Stomach wasn’t big enough to have real meals, not like this.” 

“Why’d he pick you?” ventures Loki, aware that personal questions might be out of bounds.

“He said I had tenacity,” says Clint. “I told him what the fuck did he know and stormed out. But I was back, an hour later, and he was waiting. I swear he’s psychic.” 

“How about you?” asks Loki, relieved that neither of them have reacted poorly.

Natasha shrugs. “I guess I was pretty flexible,” she says. He doubts that’s the whole story. There’s something about her that’s polished, sharp as a knife. No doubt Fury would be attracted to it.

“What about you?” says Natasha, turning it right back on Loki.

Loki imitates Natasha’s shrug. “He says I’m a mimic.” 

Immediately, the two of them freeze. Clint gives a low whistle. “You know what that means,” he says, looking to Natasha.

She nods; her eyes are on Loki. “He’s finally found someone to dance the lead for the Avengers.” 

Loki remembers the special dance, the one Nick Fury had mentioned. His throat is dry. “What’s the Avengers?” 

“A dance. He’s been obsessing over it for years,” says Clint. He still looks a little awed. “It’s about a villain--” He cuts off, when Natasha sends him a sharp look. “What? What are friends for, if not a little friendly backstabbing of our teacher?” 

_Friends_. The word gives Loki a little thrill. 

Natasha rolls her eyes. Clint continues.

“It centers on a villain who goes up against six heroes,” he says. “The villain takes on each one and defeats them, individually, but they all rise up and kill him at the end.” 

“The heroes are the Avengers,” Natasha explains, soft.

“You need a lead dancer who can match the styles of six other people,” he says. “And who has the endurance and the flexibility to match them. Beyond that, there are a whole bunch of tricks that Fury puts in there.” 

Loki sits back. It makes sense now.

“Damn,” says Clint, “I really want in on that dance.” 

“We’re practically guaranteed spots,” Natasha informs Clint. “The question is, who’ll be the other four?” 

“And,” adds Clint, “will you give your brother another reason to get jealous?” He elbows Loki, jokingly, and Loki laughs, startled and amused and flattered, disarmed. He wants it too, now. Bad enough to fight for it.


	2. My brother's keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor has just about hit his limit. But Loki has friends, now, and he doesn't give in so easily. Also: an old student and a new student arrive.

This is not what Thor wanted. Not what he imagined when he found out that Loki wanted to come with him to the dance academy. He thought everything would be as it was, that Loki would be his best friend again, that the two years of separation would mean nothing. 

Instead, he sees less of Loki than ever. 

Brief flashes of his brother ducking into and out of classrooms. Glimpses of him eating lunch with the two most stuck-up and exclusive students in the school -- Romanova and Barton. He is jealous of them, and their closeness with Loki, and he is jealous of Loki’s ability, which he always assumed lesser than his own, and he feels the sting of rejection. Loki is avoiding him on purpose. He must be.

Thor’s brooding becomes obvious, after a few weeks. 

“What _is_ it?” asks Fandral. “Thor, you’re sighing like a mopey cow.”

“And how does a cow sigh, Fandral?” asks Sif.

“Like Thor just did,” Fandral returns, “otherwise I wouldn’t have made the comparison.” 

Thor thinks he’s dodged a bullet, maybe, that they’re not focusing on him anymore, but at that very second they both turn to him like sharks that have smelled blood in the water. 

“Nothing is wrong.” 

It is an obvious lie.

“Is it Jane?” asks Fandral. “Do you pine for her?” 

One of the best ballerinas in the year below them. Jane is smart, and she’s quick, and she’s more elegant than Thor could ever hope to be. He can’t even dance with her; she’s not at his level in hip-hop, and he’s not at her level in ballet.

Thor, if it’s possible, deepens his sulk.

“Brought low by a woman!” laughs Fandral. “The great and mighty Thor...” 

Sif laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She is watching Thor. She knows something is really wrong, and maybe she knows why, too.

~*~

Loki presses his locker shut, and reaches for his phone. Pages through the messages -- there’s a voicemail from Frigga, and he braces his phone between ear and shoulder, rearranging the books in his bag with both hands. 

“ _Hello, Loki. You haven’t called in a week; I thought I might check in. Thor assures me you’re healthy, but I worry... Are you well? Do you need anything? Your father and I could send a care package, and it could be there in two days, or less. Please, call your mother._ ” A pause. “ _I love you, dearest Loki._ ” The phone hangs up. Loki deletes the message, and --

\-- runs SMACK into a brick wall.

Not actually a brick wall. Just a person doing a surprisingly good impression of one. Books explode everywhere, mostly Loki’s, along with a fair few loose sheets of paper, mostly the brick walls.

“What have you _done_?” snaps Loki, and he dives after his textbooks. Just because they’re dancers doesn’t mean they can neglect the rest of their studies. They have classes, even in a place like this. But the brick’s hands steady his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” and that face is narrowed in concern. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” snaps Loki, shrugging off the helping hands. 

Nonetheless, Brick helps him gather up his books, stacks them neatly and hands them back. By the time they’re done, the halls have cleared; everyone has slipped into their classes.

“Did I make you late?” asks Brick, sheepishly. “I’ll go and explain.” 

“...no.” He doesn’t have class right now. And he realizes, in light of that and somewhat belatedly, that his reaction may have been a bit overboard. 

“Oh, good,” says Brick. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.” 

Loki takes the large hand in his own more delicate one. “Loki,” he says. He’s gotten into the habit of not giving a last name. 

Steve smiles, a sort of sheepish, innocent thing, and Loki’s anger fades to a simmer. “Can I make it up to you?” he asks. “We could go grab a table at the cafeteria. You’re a junior, right? I think I’ve seen you hanging around with Clint and Natasha.” 

He refers to them easily, like they’re friends, and Loki feels a little flicker of jealousy. How come he doesn’t know this man, if they do? 

“Freshman,” he corrects. “They’re friends.” 

“Oh, sorry,” says Steve. “I don’t know them that well. If you’re a freshman, why aren’t you in any of my classes?” 

Loki gives the man a once-over, revising his estimation. He’s _large_ for a freshman. Loki had thought senior, perhaps...

“Private tutoring,” he says, shortly. His suspicions thus proven wrong, one after the other, makes him feel a little peevish. 

“What do you say?” asks Steve. “Lunch?” 

Loki grits his teeth, and nods. 

Later, in the cafeteria, Steve comes back with a _fifth_ serving of the leathery stake and mashed potatoes entree. Loki stares, and Steve tucks right on in, eating with as much gusto as he had in the first serving.

“Honestly, I’m a little at odds and ends,” says Steve. “My dancing partner -- Peggy -- she twisted her ankle, and she’s off of it for at least another couple of weeks. But we have a dance we’re supposed to prepare, and none of the other girls are strong enough to...” He trails off, and there’s that sheepish look again. “It’s rough. This place is harder than I thought it would be. Which is good; I thought it might be too easy! Still, might be nice to have an ally.” 

Loki checks his watch. Not because he’s actually looking at the time, but because Sif is crossing the cafeteria towards him, and he truly, honestly does not want to talk to her.

“I have to go,” he says. 

“Oh, really?” Steve looks terribly disappointed, like a kicked puppy, and Loki curses, inwardly. Steve moves to his feet, extends a hand. “It was really nice to meet you.” 

Loki has been nothing but curt and unpleasant to the man, and yet he’s kind and polite. Loki didn’t come here wanting to make friends. They’re just so damned _nice_. 

“I, mm,” he starts, and then Sif is right there.

“Loki,” she says. 

His mouth firms. “Sif,” he returns.

“Excuse me, I’m going to borrow him,” she tells Steve, and after a bewildered _go-ahead_ sort of gesture, she drags Loki away from the table and off into a window alcove.

“Go talk to your brother,” she says.

“I’d rather not,” says Loki. 

“What is _wrong_ with you? First you abandon your family, and then you make friends with--” 

She glances to the side, her jaw tightening. 

“With people who actually enjoy my company?” he returns, archly. The comment about _family_ stings, far more than Sif knows. 

“We _do_ enjoy your company.”

“You tolerate my company.” 

“Thor loves you.”

“Thor can go _fuck_ himself!” 

Loki is just as shocked as Sif at the ferocity in his tone. He snarls it, like some kind of wounded wild animal. Anger buried only just beneath the skin. He hates Thor, these days. He’s trained himself to hate Thor. 

He turns away from Sif, and marches back to Steve. 

“You’re in luck,” he says, scribbling down something on a napkin. “Sif just volunteered to help you out, as a favor to me.” 

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really?” 

“Really. Here’s her number.” 

~*~

“You have a lot of anger, Loki.” 

It’s another calm, inflectionless remark from Coulson, and it pauses him halfway through the learned routine. He’d been thinking of Thor.

“I suppose you want me to let it go,” Loki says, dryly.

“No,” says Coulson. “But I’ll teach you to channel it. Here, go again.” 

Hardly six beats in, Coulson says: “Stop.” 

Loki has his leg in the air, bent, and is reaching to the ground but not touching it yet. He goes still. 

“Director Fury wants you to join our cheerleading squad.” 

Loki makes a scoffing noise. They have cheerleaders, but not football players. Competitive dance teams, not lacrosse or soccer or basketball. 

“He wants you to learn to perform as a group.” 

Loki pulls his leg down, starts to stand again.

“Leg up, Loki. Hold that position.” 

By this point, his leg is growing tired. He starts to tremble with muscle strain. “I’m not the cheerleading type,” he spits.

“You’re a chameleon,” points out Coulson. “You can be whatever type you want, and none of the rest of the world ever has to know.” 

For once in his life, Loki takes a lesson completely to heart. 

~*~

“Hey, hot stuff.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes before she even looks. She knows the voice. Turns away from Loki and Clint, currently sharing a beet salad -- the kind she has no taste for -- and focuses on Tony Stark.

“You’re late, Stark,” she says. “You should have started hitting on me three weeks ago.” 

Tony Stark, asshat and billionaire with way more ego than talent, slides his opaque cooler-than-thou sunglasses to the end of his nose. “There was a small delay,” he says. “They had to let me in again.” 

“So you can try and get this program canned a third time?” chimes in Clint.

“That was a threat. The board of directors wasn’t going to follow through.” 

“Not once they saw all the zeroes on your daddy’s check.” 

Tony focuses in on Natasha. “Go out with me.” 

“No,” she says. 

“Not even for the free meal?” 

“I doubt a free meal would be worth the two hours of her life she’d never get back,” says Loki. Sharp kid. She shoots him an approving look. 

“And who are you?” asks Tony Stark.

“Loki,” says Loki.

Doesn’t escape Natasha’s attention that he doesn’t use his last name anymore.

~*~

“The results are in, Director.” 

Nick Fury waves Coulson in, gesturing for him to take a seat next to Maria Hill, who has the account books open on her lap. 

“I sent the test to a private lab in Portland. I don’t think anyone will suspect.” Coulson slides into the seat, and passes an envelope over to Fury. “It’s what we expected.” 

Fury’s eyes scan down the report. “He’s adopted.” 

“There is no genetic relation between Loki and Thor.” 

“That explains a little,” says Maria. “How’s the PI going?” 

“Nothing,” says Coulson. “No adoption records. He’s working on birth certificates next, but seventeen years ago a lot of hospitals in the area weren’t on computer systems yet. And those that were... well. Server crashes, old programs and poorly-indexed files are the order of the day.” 

“Isn’t that always the case.” 

Maria turns a page in the account books. “We’re charging this under...?” 

“Put it with the engineering expenses involved in building the new wing.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Given any thought on the other six Avengers?” asks Coulson.

“Romanova and Barton.” 

“Of course. Anyone else?” 

“Got one guy in mind.” 

~*~

It was a bad idea to transfer.

His shoulders are hunched; his tray is in the protective triangle of two elbows and his chest, and he gives off nothing but _don’t-talk-to-me_ signals. He doesn’t know anyone here, and, granted, that’s how he likes it -- it’s hellish, trying to explain his past to anyone not already in the know -- but they don’t _know_ that’s how he likes it. He’s afraid that, at any moment, someone will approach the table and --

“Hi,” says Jane Foster. “I’m Jane. You’re new, right?” 

Bruce Banner sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

~*~

Sif shows up at the studio, but it’s only to let Steve Rogers down gently. She doesn’t really have time to practice another routine, even if she’s just spotting for someone else. Shifts, uncomfortably, as she’s managed to get there fifteen minutes early. 

She’s not in tights, but she does have sweats on, and after a moment or two, she discards her bag and starts to stretch. Why not? It won’t hurt anything, and it’ll leave her something to do while she waits. 

And then she starts running through her routine for jazz class. Won’t hurt anything, right? 

And then the door opens and closes and Sif freezes.

“Hey,” says Steve. “You warmed up?” 

“Yes,” says Sif, automatically.

“Hey, thank you again for doing this.” He smiles, broadly, and Sif gives up.

“I can’t give it that much time,” she warns.

“I know, it’s fine. I appreciate anything.” 

She returns his smile. It comes easily. “Then let’s get started.” 

~*~

It’s too hot to live.

String of 100+ degree weather, and the dorm’s air conditioning is on the fritz. Loki lies spread-eagled on the blanket spread under the tree canopy. A little clearing, accessible by a little path. Not too many people know it’s here. 

He closes his eyes. He can hear Clint’s breathing, low and steady next to him. Natasha’s is barely audible; only when he’s listening for several minutes, slowly filtering out the sound of breeze and trees and birds, does he hear hers. 

Loki envies her stealth. 

“They say,” says Loki, interrupting what was probably a half-hour of silence, “that the two of you are elitist.” 

Clint’s breath huffs out. Loki stops being able to hear Natasha’s.

“Maybe we are,” she says. 

“I don’t want to be friends with most of those people,” says Clint.

Loki shares the sentiment. Both of them. He picks up a leaf from the ground next to him and begins to strip it, silent. 

“If you mean Thor and company,” adds Clint, “then he should take a nice long look at himself. He doesn’t give the time of day to anyone who he didn’t know growing up.” 

Loki thinks over it, and nods, slow, to himself.

“I would kill for air conditioning,” says Natasha.

“I’d help you hide the body,” volunteers Clint. 

“Leave the alibi to me,” says Loki. “No need to worry.” 

Clint huffs. It’s what passes for laughter, on a day like this. 

Another long pause. Loki is halfway to drifting to sleep, and probably would be already if the breeze were a little more constant. His skin is covered in sweat. He detests it. 

Clint takes a breath. “Loki, can I ask you something?” 

“Yes.” It isn’t an automatic answer. Loki has decided. 

“Do you love your brother or hate him?” 

Loki almost laughs. But instead he stares up at the lazily rustling leaves, and he says, “Yes.” Both. Always both.

“Knew there was a reason you fit in so well with us,” says Clint. 

Loki feels a touch on his palm, light as a bird. Natasha’s fingertips rest in his palm. Not quite like holding hands, but he’s afraid to move, and to shatter the moment. 

~*~

When he returns home, that night, Thor is waiting for him.

“Loki,” says Thor, “we need to talk.” 

“Not tonight.” 

“Loki --” 

“ _Not tonight._ ” 

Loki shuts the door in his face, clinging to the shreds of that perfect moment, with his two _friends_. Two people he trusts. 

~*~

Thor stares at the shut door.

It’s the last straw.


	3. How to lose yourself in forty days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki learns to break; Bruce keeps his calm; Tony wants to be on top. Introducing Peggy Carter.

She is a tyrant.

A tyrant with blood-red lips and impeccably curled hair. Something old-fashioned about her, as though she just stepped out of a black-and-white movie, an era when women were Women. She has a way of making everyone else feel inadequate.

Maybe it comes with the territory. She is the cheerleading captain, after all.

“And five, six, seven, eight,” she chants, clapping with the beat. She is still seated, her leg braced up on a stool -- keep it elevated, the doctor had told her -- but her sheer presence makes it feel as though she’s stalking her cheerleaders like a slim but lethal bird of prey. Her name is Peggy, and she commands the cheerleaders like she was born to it. 

There are others that he’s met in the squad. Clint is there, perhaps purely for his muscle power. Tony Stark, who seems to think the entire show’s about him, leaving Loki gritting his teeth and enduring. There’s Fandral, whom Loki ignores, determinedly. And the rest are mostly girls. 

Loki’s part is simple, but he doesn’t know the routine, so he hesitates, and lands his handspring too late, hitting a beat after everyone else.

“Loki,” she says. “You’re not up to everyone else’s level.” 

He is tempted to snap at her, but recalls Coulson’s lesson. Pride isn’t in demonstrating that he’s immune to her remarks; pride is in manipulating her. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry. This is the first time I’ve done this sort of routine.” Look how genuine, look how his brows crease with worry and he is hesitant, kind, new, earnest. 

He doesn’t quite hit all the notes, but apparently it’s convincing enough. “Fury tells me you have some talent,” she says, “so I’ll assume you just need to be trained up. Stark, thank you for volunteering to give him private lessons.” 

Loki thanks his lucky stars that it’s not Fandral. 

“What?” asks Tony. “I didn’t volunteer.”

“That’s funny,” says Peggy. “I heard you very clearly.” 

Tony simmers. “You’ll owe me a favor,” he mutters.   
“Was that a lack of _team spirit_ I just heard in your tone, Stark?” asks Peggy, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Tony knows well enough how to answer that one. “No, ma’am.” 

“Good. Form up; start from the top.” 

~*~

“Not to late to join the cheerleaders, right?” asks Thor, lowly, to Fandral. 

Fandral is so surprised by this that his conversational track -- a long monologue about the virtues of Peggy Carter’s lips -- is completely derailed.

“What,” he says, “because of Peggy Carter’s lips?” 

Thor shrugs. “Might be a good activity.” 

“Her lips might be a good--?”

“No! Cheerleading. I think it might suit me well. I could lift those girls better than Loki might.” 

“Loki’s a natural acrobat,” Fandral points out. “He might be moody and annoying, but he certainly has virtues on a squad.” 

“I could have virtues.” 

“Well. No, it’s not too late, I suppose.”

~*~

The advanced ballet class, all in all, is Maria Hill’s greatest achievement. Of course, balancing the school’s books so that all illicit purchases simply disappear is a point of pride with her, as is running the staff somewhat like a military hierarchy. But the dancers -- they absorb her discipline and her subtle artistry, and she molds them into stars. 

At the moment, she has four in her advanced class. Jane Foster and Natasha Romanova -- polar opposite, in temperaments, but both astonishingly talented. Add in Tony Stark and this new, quiet student, and she has a wider variety of personalities than she ever has before. 

“Bruce,” she says, turning down the music. “You added a little delay, before the second phrase.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Do you want me to...? It felt right.” 

“No, it was excellent,” she says. “I want you all to add that in. Hesitate, there. Just like he did.” 

Tony frowns, Natasha looks thoughtful, and Jane smiles at Bruce. 

Never. They _never_ all react the same way. Maria finds it fascinating, as though she’s looking at all of them through a microscope.

“One more run-through,” she says. 

~*~

“Again.” 

Loki’s arms are aching, and he glares up at the uneven bars. It’s a girl’s apparatus, and yet this is where Fury has him practicing, learning to leap up and go into a handstand. His shoulders ache endlessly; he’s already repeated it countless times, shocked himself with how _good_ he is at it, but he’s growing exhausted. 

He experiences a little shiver of hate when Fury says _again_ , of frustration and exhaustion. But, gamely, he hops up, folds himself and lifts his legs, balancing on his palms. 

“And down.” 

He spins down and lands softly on the balls of his feet.

“Again.” 

Loki hesitates, a long moment, and Fury adds: “You can do this, Loki.” 

“What if I can’t?” snaps Loki, rounding on Fury. “What if I’m not the man you think I am?” He wouldn’t say things like this, but it’s just been such a _long_ day. Training that leaves him wrecked, day after day, practically crawling back to the dorms. He’s stronger, certainly, and he’s better, but nothing he does ever seems to satisfy Fury.

Fury examines him, for a long moment. 

“Get your sweats back on,” he says. “We’re going to have a talk.” 

Five minutes later, he has Loki sit down on a pile of mats, and he explains.

“Loki,” he says, “one failure to meet a goal isn’t going to mean you flunk out of this program.” 

Loki is wary, withdrawn.

“You understand?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t, really.

“When you fail to meet a goal of mine,” says Fury, “that means that I didn’t set the right damn goals. You’re working hard as can be. So the moment you fail, that means we readjust our training schedule and work on that skill until you got it.” 

Loki nods. Now, he’s starting to understand.

“So I’m gonna set you a challenge,” says Fury. “I’m going to teach you how to lose, Loki. How to fail. I’ll push until you can’t take it, and then I’m going to teach you how to survive loss.” 

“I _won’t_ fail.” 

“We’ll see. Get here, 5 AM tomorrow, and we’ll start again.” 

Loki’s stomach sinks. Two hours early? What has he gotten himself into? 

~*~

“So, which one of us do you think is the better dancer?” 

Going through cool-down motions. Maria Hill has already left, leaving her advanced dancers alone. This last is directed from Tony to Bruce, the two male ballet dancers, the two who are on top of the school’s classical program. 

Privately, Natasha believes it might be Bruce. Just because he doesn’t let his ego get in the way. 

“I really couldn’t say,” says Bruce, without looking up. He’s stretching, long and leisurely.

Jane shoots each of them a worried look.

“So let’s find out,” says Tony. “You, me, dance-off.” 

“Not really interested.”

“Come on,” says Tony. “Come _on_.” Like a whining four-year-old, thinks Natasha. “We’ve all heard the rumors.” 

“The Avengers dance?” asks Jane.

“Yeah. And only the best is going to make it in.” 

“I don’t care about the dance,” sighs Bruce.

“Then throw it and let me look good! C’mon. I want it. You don’t care. It’s perfect. Okay, we’ll have it in the second theatre, tomorrow after class. You game? Great? Great. See you then.” 

And then Tony is out of the classroom at approximately .4 times the speed of light.

Bruce blinks.

“I just wouldn’t show up,” says Natasha. If it was her.

“I don’t have anything else to do,” muses Bruce. 

“Then kick his ass.” 

She shoulders her bag, and leaves.

~*~

The first time he falls asleep in math, Natasha wakes him up by a vicious poke between the shoulderblades. The second time, she just lets him sleep. The third time, she herds him outside after class and to Clint, who’s waiting.

“Here,” says Clint, handing him a key.

Loki stares at it. “What’s this?” 

“Key to Fury’s office,” says Natasha.

“He lets me nap in there,” says Clint. “I got it duplicated. Nat said you were having a hard time staying awake. Saves you the walk back to the dorm.” 

Loki is shocked to the core. He is every time they do something this kind for him. 

“Probably won’t use it,” he murmurs.

An hour later, he’s fast asleep on the couch in the locked, darkened office. When he wakes up, it’s because Clint slides onto the couch with him. 

“You weigh nothing,” says Clint. “Just,” and he adjusts Loki until Loki’s on top of him, his head on Clint’s chest. 

He’s too tired to object, and he falls back asleep quickly. 

~*~

In the morning: 

“Up and at ‘em,” says Fury. “You got fifteen minutes to get changed and get out of my office.” He closes the door, leaving them in there. 

Loki yawns and stretches, and when he shifts his weight, he feels his thigh come into contact with a very hard lump in Clint’s trousers. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“It’s not a big deal,” says Clint. 

~*~

“And one and two and three -- Loki!” 

He moved the wrong direction again, he realizes. Just so _tired_ and so _sore_. He’s forgotten how it feels to be healthy and well-rested. He rubs his palm over his forehead.

“Are you just an idiot, or...?” asks Tony Stark.

“Shut up,” snarls Loki.

“Cut it out!” Peggy snaps, her words cracking like a whip. She moves to her feet, and limps to Loki, her hand on his back. “Are you all right?” she asks, lowly.

Loki feels the unaccustomed urge to tell the truth. There’s no reason to lie, and he’s been faking trust in her for long enough that it’s started to feel more natural than the alternative. 

“Fury’s been working me too hard.” 

Too hard. Not very hard, not harder than ever, but _too hard_. 

“Tell him,” she says. 

“I can’t.” For so many reasons. 

“He’s not supposed to _break_ you.” 

But that’s exactly what he’s trying to do, Loki doesn’t say. He wants to break me and put me back together different, and I don’t want to know what that feels like. Tears well up in his eyes, and he shakes, and her arm goes around his shoulders.

“Sit down.” Her voice as stern as ever, but now that’s stern _protectiveness_. “And skip practice. We have a new member to train; you can take a rest.” 

“Thank you,” Loki whispers. Shocked and grateful. 

“Jesus, you’ve gone soft,” says Tony. “Anyhow, I gotta boogie.” 

“If you leave to practice for your ridiculous little contest,” says Peggy, her voice steely, “I will put your testicles in a vice and squeeze until--” 

“I take it back,” says Tony. 

~*~

And Thor, by this time, has grown worried.

Loki had all but vanished, before. Remained elusive, to Thor’s eyes, always slipping away or staying just out of reach. But now, Loki is visible, and he’s _exhausted_. There are dark circles in his eyes, and he moves as though every step is painful. Thor is painfully afraid for his little brother, who doesn’t know how to be a dancer, who doesn’t know what this kind of thing will do to his body. It’s _bad_. It’s wrong. It shouldn’t be happening.

And this is exactly what he tells Nick Fury.

“Go tell your brother,” says Fury. “Don’t tell me.” 

“You are his tutor,” fumes Thor, “you are the man responsible for him, and you must see that this is wrong.” 

“What I do with Loki’s lessons is his business and mine,” says Fury. “ _Go tell him._ ” 

“My mother has charged me with his care. I will not simply abandon him to your whims --”

“ _Thor._ ” 

Thor stops.

“You listen to me,” says Fury. “Loki is a damn adult, and he makes his own choices. So if you want to pre-empt him, you want to go over his head, you can get out of my office. If you want to tell him to his face that you don’t respect him or what he’s doing, then bring him back here and we’ll talk.” 

Fury sits down, folds his fingers on his desk. 

“Are we done?” 

Thor’s eyes are dark, like an oncoming storm. 

~*~

Stays late practicing for the dance-off, God knows why. Bruce isn’t particularly ambitious, but the idea of being shown up makes him prickle, subtly. He doesn’t want anyone taking too close a look at him, either, and the way to do that here seems to be somewhat competitive. 

He doesn’t stay in the dorms. Doesn’t trust himself, really. Sometimes he still imagines that there’s a monster under his skin waiting to burst out, and it scares him with how real it feels. 

His parents want him in a place where he can be watched, anyway.

So he waits for the bus, in the darkness, under a sporadic street light. Not far from the dorm; a half-block. 

“Hey, it’s a _ballerina_.” 

“Ooh, hi, ballerina man.” 

“Do a dance for us.” 

“Pretty ugly for a girl.” 

“Do you wear a tutu?” 

They’re idiot thugs, three of them, from the high school only a few blocks away. Giggling at themselves. 

“Pretty tired to do a dance,” he tells them. “I’m just waiting for the bus.” He’s calm. There’s no monster in him.

“Aww, come on. Can you do splits?” 

One of them shoves him. Bruce sighs. 

~*~

They’re on their way back from rehearsal when Steve sees them. Three of them, clustered at the bus stop.

Steve holds out a hand, and stops Sif, next to him. “Hey, look,” he says.

Sif focuses. “I think that’s...”  
 As they watch, the lone figure is shoved back onto the ground, landing hard. 

“His name’s Bruce.” Steve breaks into a run. “Hey! Hey.” 

“Oooh, it’s some more ballerinas,” says one, “are you gonna do a chorus girl line?” 

“Here, I’ll give you a beat--” 

“Where’re all y’all’s ballerina shoes?” 

“How about you leave him alone?” says Steve, positioning himself between Bruce and the assailants. Bruce, who, by all accounts seems more curious as to what’s going to happen than worried at the progression of events. 

“What, you think you’re tough?” One of ‘em shoves at Steve. Sif grits her teeth. This is going downhill, very quickly. But she’s not going to leave him alone. 

“Tougher than you,” she says, archly.

“Whatever, bitch,” says one.

And Steve takes a swing. The first guy goes down like a sack of potatoes, falls right on his ass with a stunned look on his face. And then Sif slams the top of her foot into the second guy’s balls and knees him in the stomach, for good measure, as the third one runs straight at Steve.

The fight is over in record time, with the three of them scattering to the winds. 

Sif feels like badass.

“Well,” says Bruce, “that was interesting.” He picks himself up, rubs the back of his head, gingerly.

“You okay?” asks Steve. 

“Fine,” Bruce says. “Fine. Thank you.”

Steve sticks out a hand. “Steve Rogers.” 

“Bruce. Bruce Banner.” 

“Sif,” says Sif.

“Thanks. Again, I mean.” 

There’s a moment or two of awkward silence. 

In that moment, all three of them realize that now they’ve committed. The friend duo of Steve and Sif has expanded to a trio. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” says Steve.

“Yeah,” says Bruce.

~*~

Outside the dorm, Sif pulls Steve aside and presses a single kiss to his lips.

It’s long. Sweet. Her fingers slide in his hair, and when he pulls back, he says, “I, you, y-you, I don’t,” and she laughs.

“Good job, going to save him.” 

“But that’s not why I--”

“I know,” she says. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be getting a kiss.” 

An arch of her eyebrow, and she disappears inside, leaving him alone. 

He smiles.

~*~

Not the only one, either.

Loki doesn’t want to go back to his own empty dorm room, so he stays in Clint’s, curled up against the wall, watching him do his homework. (Loki is already done.) Clint glances up, catches his eyes. “You should be sleeping,” he says.

“I’m too wired,” says Loki. Besides, he’s thinking. About the reaction of Clint’s body, and Natasha’s fingers pressing into his palm. Is it possible...? He straightens up, sits back on his heels. “Come here.” He phrases it as an order, experimentally.

Clint moves to his feet and slides onto the bed. “Why?” 

Loki inches forward, closes the gap between them. “Was it a dream of someone else?” he asks. “Or do you want me?” 

“Hell, Loki...” 

“Tell me.” 

Frightened and hopeful. Loki is untouched, was always scornful of the boy- and girl-obsessed. 

“Yeah,” says Clint. “Yeah.” 

“Tell me more.” He reaches out, and touches Clint’s shirt, tracing his fingers down. He is shy; he doesn’t know what he should be doing, but he sees Clint’s eyes go darker, and he thinks maybe he can be seductive after all.

“You and Nat,” says Clint. “Both of you.” 

He takes Loki’s face between his hands and kisses him, hard. As though someone flipped a switch -- as the phrase goes, turned Loki _on_. His body comes to life, and his heartbeat races, and there is a strange tightness in his belly. A wanting. 

“Jesus,” murmurs Clint, “Jesus,” and he kisses Loki again, until their tongues touch. Messy, Loki notes, and he fights the urge to wipe off his lips. Instead lets them slide against each other, pushes closer, until Clint leans back and tugs Loki onto his lap. 

Making out, Loki observes, clinically. He’s never done that before. 

Only about ten minutes before Clint says, “you gotta go, go get some rest.” 

_Can I stay?_ Loki almost asks. “Yes,” he says, instead. “You’re right.” 

~*~

He gets back only to find Thor pounding on his door. “Loki!” shouts Thor. “Loki, I know you’re in there!” 

“Intelligent, brother,” says Loki, imbuing the word with acid sting. _Brother_ , in a way that means _you are an asshole_. “As ever.” 

Thor whirls. “Loki.” To his credit, he does seem genuinely startled to find Loki out here. “Loki, we must speak.” 

Loki wipes his hand over his lips, hoping that it’s not too obvious what just happened. He still feels buzzed from Clint’s touch. The combination of exhausted and wired... he won’t let Fury win. He won’t. He’ll be better, and this has given him new strength. But now, he needs to sleep. “I don’t want to.” 

“We must.” 

Thor follows Loki inside, before he can slam the door. Loki drops his bag, thuds onto the bed. 

“Then speak,” Loki says.

“Your skin is pale, Loki. You do not sleep. You work too hard, and you are suffering for it.” Thor goes to his knees, in front of Loki, and Loki twitches back, startled and ... and satisfied. Unexpectedly satisfied, at Thor’s sign of submission. “I cannot watch you suffer,” murmurs Thor. “Please, Loki. I cannot.” 

“You don’t give a damn,” Loki returns. His voice is as precise and cutting as ever, low as a snake’s. “You never did.” 

“That is _not true._ ” Thor moves closer, gripping Loki’s knee almost painfully. “What have I done to you, brother? Why do you turn me away?” 

“You jest,” says Loki. “Surely, surely you jest.” Can Thor not know? Can he be so ignorant? 

“I do not.” Thor is _pleading_ , look at him, blue eyes filled with tears. Loki feels vicious. 

“You _left_.” The snarl is soft and quiet, and this, Loki realizes, this is what it feels like to break. “You left me alone.” He shudders and shakes. “Get out. _Get out._ ” 

“You heard what he said.” 

And he doesn’t know when Natasha appeared, but he couldn’t be more grateful. Because Thor moves to close the door on her, and she does something with his hand that has him yelping like a wounded dog, and then he’s gone and Loki is shaking like a leaf, Natasha’s hand on the back of his neck gripping too rough, fingernails digging in, and he cries. 

“Not alone now,” is all she says to him. 

And he cries harder. 

~*~

Coulson gently massages the arch of Loki’s foot.

“You’re working too hard,” he says. “Relax. You’ll injure yourself this way.” 

“Tell that to Director Fury.” 

He frowns. Utter disapproval. His hand moves to Loki’s angle and rotates it, gently but firmly. No pain, but when he digs his thumb into Loki’s calf, Loki hisses. 

“You’re the one who’s letting him,” says Coulson. “Tell him to stop.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Loki.” 

Loki meets Coulson’s eyes. He’s afraid, and he’s tired. But he does.

“Loki,” says Coulson, “tell him to stop.” 

“I will,” Loki promises. “I will.”


	4. Four assignments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Bruce have a dance-off; Loki gets some gossip; assignments are posted for the first competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, there will be a few what-if ficlets with a few one-off pairings, not consistent with the main universe.
> 
> As always, you can request pairings in this fic/other fic for me to write on here, or on my [Tumblr Ask](http://cerebel.tumblr.com/ask). Feel free to follow me on tumblr as well; I'm cerebel on there!

When Clint and Natasha have class -- Tuesdays and Thursdays -- it leaves Loki alone for lunch. Avoiding Thor, he’s found, is much easier when there’s someone to put as a shield between him and his brother. And, as such, he’s taken to sitting with the girl cheerleaders, where, oddly, he’s welcome, even when the other male cheerleaders generally aren’t. 

He likes them. They have a practicality to them -- athletes, not entirely dancers -- and there’s no insistence on artistry when the artistry has no _point_. When they plan, when they cheer, it is a means to a very specific end, and they construct their show with that end in mind. 

It works, for Loki, better than the endless posturing and often boring focus on singular and minute movements in ballet. When he dances, he wants to _dance_ ; he wants to transform and fly, and he is impatient with dances and styles that take long hours of arduous, boring practice to get that far. 

Cheerleading is like candy to him. Flashy, showy, designed to produce adulation, and it’s strengthening in ways he didn’t know were possible.

So he sits with them. Most notably, the more quiet ones, and their extended friends: Peggy, and a sophomore named Pepper Potts, and Jane Foster, the ballet star of the school. And also --

“Heyyyy, frosh!” A hand ruffles his hair, and Loki flinches away. “Such a cutie!” And Darcy, the cheerleading second-in-command, or lieutenant, or sub-captain, or co-captain, depending on who you ask, has arrived. He’s only met her once; after that, she was off on a class trip for a couple of weeks. Her, and a handful of others, mostly hip-hop. 

Come to think of it, he’s not entirely sure why Thor didn’t go. 

“Darcy!” Jane wraps her in a hug, and Loki’s ears are assailed by mutually gleeful shrieking. 

“It’s so nice to see you,” says Pepper, and gives a hug of her own. Strange; out of another’s lips, those would be hollow words, somewhat meaningless, but on her, they’re truly genuine. Loki _must_ find out how she does that. 

“Forgive me if I don’t give up,” says Peggy, giving a nod to the crutches. “Good to have you back.” Cool and formal, but Loki has the feeling that, from her, it’s practically effusive. 

“Aww, Peggy, I knew I was your favorite.” Darcy slips into the seat next to Loki, and puts an arm around his shoulders. “So, we’re allowing a boy into our secret pow-wow. Does he know the vagina passphrase? Is he gay?” 

Loki takes brief satisfaction in the way all three of them frown, briefly, unsure of the answer. So many of the boys in this school are clearly gay; Loki isn’t quite gay or straight, and it’s in a way that no one knows how to pin him down.

“ _Are_ you gay?” asks Jane, always the first one to ask a question.

“No,” says Loki, blithely, truthfully. He wouldn’t like to restrict his options. 

“Huh,” says Darcy. “Vagina passphrase it is.” And then something clicks, in her eyes. “You’re Thor’s brother, aren’t you.” 

Loki sighs. He’s almost done with lunch anyway. He can probably make an exit.

“He is a _dream_ ,” says Darcy. “Have you seen those abs? This is a place full of wonderful abs, and his are still...” 

Loki makes a face.

“He’s all right, I guess,” says Jane.

“Not my type,” says Peggy, filling in an answer in the crossword she’s doing. 

“Um,” and Pepper flushes. 

“Still hung up on a certain someone, I see,” says Darcy, conspiratorially. Nudges Loki in the ribs, including him in the conspiracy.

Good gossip is always worth sticking around for. Loki leans in, subtly, allowing his body language to imply he’s one of the group. It seems to work, with them, though he wishes he could have Peggy’s aloof effortlessness. She’s a part of the group and she doesn’t even look like she _wants_ to be.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” says Pepper, indignant.

“I didn’t,” points out Darcy. 

“Who?” asks Loki, doing his best impression of a doe-eyed, innocent freshman.

“No one,” says Pepper. And then, “Tony Stark.” 

Loki rolls his eyes. A reaction too quick to tamp down on. Darcy snorts, and Pepper covers her face with one of her hands. 

“My thoughts exactly,” says Jane. 

“He’s not just a rich boy,” Pepper insists. “There’s a lot more to him.” 

“Well, he’s never shown it to me,” says Darcy. 

“He’s a good dancer,” Jane shrugs. “Just... not as good as he thinks he is.” 

“Are you in ballet?” he asks Darcy. He knows both Jane and Pepper are on that track, and possibly Peggy, though she seems a sort of jazz person instead. Smoky rooms, women with low voices, and the sort of sultry beauty that belongs in the ‘40s. 

Darcy bursts out laughing. Cups her breasts. “Nope,” she says. “These jiggle. Ms. Hill says they’re distracting.” 

Of course. Loki feels a bit like an idiot. 

“Oh my god,” says Jane, her eyes on her watch. She crams the last bit of her nutritionist-approved sandwich in her mouth. 

“What?” asks Darcy. “What is it?” 

“Tony and the new guy are having a dance-off,” she says. “Completely forgot. It’s in five minutes, in the first hall.” 

Pepper brightens. 

“What are we waiting for?” Darcy grabs her bag. 

~*~

Natasha brings Clint along, figuring that the dance will be funnier if there’s a little commentary. Isn’t long after they get there when Loki slides into a seat beside her. Looks like he came in with the crowd of girls. She tilts her head back, shoots him a glance.

“New friends?” she asks.

He shrugs. Unwilling to say yes or no. She can appreciate that. He probably doesn’t want to admit anything that could draw him further apart from them. Also, he plays his cards close to the chest, something she can respect.

“Which one do you think will dance better?” asks Loki. 

“Bruce,” says Clint, as, at the same time, Natasha says, “Tony.” They look at one another. 

“Bruce has the talent,” says Clint.

“Tony has the confidence,” says Natasha. “It looks more like talent, when you don’t know someone.” 

And they both look at Loki.

“I wouldn’t dare predict,” he demurs. 

~*~

Bruce stretches slowly and methodically. Tony’s already hopping around backstage, bracing himself on the rails and pointing a toe to the sky. He’s wasting his strength.

“You scared?” asks Tony, shifting from heel to toe. “You’re scared, right?” 

Bruce straightens up, ponderously. “Not really,” he says. 

“Sure.” Tony sounds nervous, Bruce notes, even as he tries to dismiss Bruce’s words. 

Bruce pities him, then. This is important to Tony. Too damn important, really. 

“Hey,” says Bruce. “We don’t have to do this.” 

Tony shoots him a glare. “I’m not backing down.” 

“So tell them I backed down,” says Bruce. “My pride’s not at stake, Tony.” 

Tony hesitates, for a long moment. Stares out, emptily, endlessly. 

“Ah,” he says, finally, “who cares. My dad’s not going to make it anyway.” 

“Thought you said he promised.” 

“Yeah,” says Tony. “I did.” 

“Right.” Bruce understands. Probably a hell of a lot more than Tony knows. 

“So let’s do this thing,” says Tony. 

“Right.” 

~*~

Loki misses most of the dance. He glances back, and sees two figures silhouetted against the door in the back. One, slim: Maria Hill. The other, bulky, dark. Director Fury. 

He slips out of the seat, indicates to Natasha that he’ll be back, and moves up the aisle softly and in the dark. Unnoticed, he’s pretty sure. He slips out one of the side doors, and makes his way up the stairs, over the balcony, and down again. Puts him only about ten feet away from Hill and Fury. 

“Don’t think you should have let them do this,” he hears Hill say, soft.

“Little healthy competition is good for them,” says Fury. 

“They should work as a team.” 

“Unfortunately, Maria, we’re dealing with dancers, not soldiers.” 

A moment of silence. “You given any thought to the dance assignments?” she asks. 

“We’ll be doing Phoenix,” he says. “In five weeks.”

“And you’re taking the list we agreed on?” 

“The pool for the Avengers, yeah. I’ll announce the final dancers tomorrow.” 

They’re silent, as the music comes on, and, presumably, the dances start. 

“God, this is dumb,” sighs Maria.

Fury laughs, a little. “They’re damn talented, though.” 

“I hate teenagers.” 

“They won’t be teenagers forever.” 

~*~

“What did you hear?” asks Clint, later. He’s been keeping a careful distance from Loki, not sure what the definitions of their relationship are. Loki isn’t sure either. He resorts to being a tease, in order to keep the power balanced his way. Clint doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“We’re going to Phoenix,” Loki tells him.

“Big competition,” says Natasha. 

Clint agrees. 

Loki lies back in the grass, and watches the stars. When he looks up, long minutes later, he sees that Clint and Natasha’s hands are clasped together.

~*~

There’s a crowd around the list. 

Loki ignores it. Sits at a table, alone, picking at a set of carrot sticks until the crowd clears away. And only then does he slip up next to it, scanning the list of dances for his name. Looks like the team going to Phoenix is predictable; mostly, he knows the names. There’s one or two he’s not completely familiar with -- Betty Ross? -- but the rest are all people he’s interacted with, people he understands, passingly enough. 

Each dance is listed under each dancer’s name. Meaning that the trios are listed three times, and the duets twice, and the solos once. Most people have two dances by their name, some only have one. 

Loki has four. 

He has to read the list twice to see it. His eyes skipped over the dense block of text, so surprised had he been by the number by his name. No; it’s correct. He’s doing four dances. And no one’s even doing three. Natasha and Clint both have two -- ballet one, and a solo for Natasha, and two modern for Clint. 

For Loki --

One with Bruce Banner, modern/ballet. One with Jane Foster _and_ Tony Stark, pure ballet this time. That’s going to be damnably hard. He’s paired with _Sif_ on the next one, with no genre listed, and finally one more with Thor and Darcy Lewis, listed as hip-hop. Oh, this ought to be an utter train wreck. 

There are people staring at him, as he sits down. Four. No one else got four.

Loki buries his head in his hands.


	5. Interlude/AU: Trollop [Darcy/Maria Hill, NC-17]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate universe within the fic, featuring Darcy Lewis and ballet dancing lessons with Maria Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This contains a little dubious consent merely by being a student/teacher relationship that includes flirting while the two are still in that dynamic.
> 
> As ever, feel free to hit up my [Ask Page](http://cerebel.tumblr.com/ask) on Tumblr if there's anything you'd like to see!

Ms. Hill has her staying after for practice. 

Again.

“Face out,” she says. “From the hips. Watch your extensions. Darcy!” 

“What?” asks Darcy. “I don’t bend that way.” 

And then there’s Maria Hill with her hands on Darcy’s ankles, spreading her feet to point outwards.

“Ow!” exclaims Darcy.

Maria moves to her feet. “Darcy,” she snaps, “how do you expect to learn if you can’t even manage simple positions?” She holds up a hand, forestalling a response. “Just... do what I do.” 

She steps, raises her leg, en pointe -- a pirouette and lands smoothly. 

“And five six seven eight,” she counts, and Darcy steps into the same movements. Unfortunately, the pirouette is a disaster; she spins too far and too fast, and stumbles in her landing. 

“Darcy!” Maria throws up her hands. “You are without a doubt the worst student I have ever had the --” 

“They’re called breasts,” Darcy points out, “and some people have them--” 

“Not ballet dancers!” 

“I’m not a ballet dancer!” 

“You need to attain a certain level of quality to pass classes at this school--” 

“You’re going to fail me?” 

Maria stumbles, verbally. “I -- well, I had considered it.” 

“But I’m really good at everything else!” Darcy protests. “You should see me doing that dance with Thor that I’m working on. It’s really cute.” 

Maria shoots her a glare. “Ballet is not _cute_.” 

“But I’m cute?” Darcy frames her face in her hands. “See? Just the picture of cute.” 

Maria’s hands go to her hips.

“Also don’t lie,” says Darcy. “You like the breasts.” She supports them with her palms, making them even _perkier_. “They’re great. They’re the best breasts in the school. I know because the boys rated them. Even the _gay_ boys.” 

Maria cracks a smile, finally. A little laugh. 

“Just pass me,” says Darcy. “This once. And then we won’t be teacher and student anymore, and I can hit on you more obviously.” 

Shock, then. “You’ve been _hitting_ on me?” 

Darcy goes right back into the cute face again. “Maybe?” 

“Darcy,” says Maria, “that is _completely inappropriate_.” 

“But kinda flattering?” 

A long hesitation.

“Kinda flattering,” Maria admits, finally.

~*~

Six months later, and Darcy lies on her belly, naked, braced on her elbows.

“You’re a lot more creative than I was expecting,” she muses. Thinks of the way Maria’s tongue traced up the inside of her thighs, how Maria curled her in half and pressed the flat of her tongue on the swell of her clit. She’s pretty sure she shrieked, because of that thing with the fingers inside her. God, that was good.

Maria settles back beside her, and she has a little silver bullet vibrator in her hand. 

“Round two?” whines Darcy. “Already?” 

Maria tips her on her back and kisses her, long and slow. “Are you saying you don’t have the endurance?” she asks, nipping just under Darcy’s jaw. Her fingers reach up and worry at Darcy’s nipple, feeling it pebble under the pad of her thumb. “Don’t have the muscle strength to keep up with a _ballerina_?” 

“Oh hell no you didn’t,” murmurs Darcy and she yowls when Maria pinches her nipple. “You do not dare me like that.” 

“I think I just did.” 

“Bring it on.” 

Maria presses the vibrator just barely inside Darcy, and her tongue circles a nipple, presses flat against it, and she suckles, gently tugging the flesh between her teeth. 

“Oh my god,” breathes Darcy, “I should have hit on you so much harder.”

A little smack, on Darcy’s thigh. “Totally inappropriate,” Maria says. “It would have been abuse of my position of power.” 

“Unh.” Darcy’s hips twitch up, and Maria pushes them back down. Straddles her thighs. “Abuse me more, please.” 

“Trollop.” 

“Did you just call me a _trollop_?” 

“Did you just act like one?” 

“Touche. Can you do that thing with your fingers again?” 

Maria slides the silver bullet out, and brushes it over Darcy’s clit. She arches, as though electrified. “Not yet,” says Maria. “I want to play a little, first.” 

“You really do like the boobs,” gasps Darcy.

“I really do.”


	6. We need to talk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people need to talk with Loki; Natasha speculates on Fury's motives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, feel free to request interludes of certain pairings and focuses on certain plotlines either through here or my [Tumblr Ask](http://cerebel.tumblr.com/ask).

It’s a nasty shock, the first time Loki steps back into cheerleading practice since his hiatus. Nasty shock because Thor is there, opposite Fandral, currently lifting the redhead -- Pepper, that’s her name -- into the air. She kicks a foot high, holds it there with a hand around her ankle. Thor’s grip hardly wavers. 

“Good,” says Peggy. “Leg straight, Pepper.” 

Pepper makes a fractional adjustment.

“Very good.” 

Peggy’s off the crutches now, Loki notices. Still a slight limp, and obviously she’s not about to start participating in human pyramids, but she’s healing. 

Thor gives Loki a little wave.

Loki brushes past Fandral -- stretching -- and goes straight for Peggy. “What’s he doing here?” he asks, lowly.

“Thor?” she asks. “He didn’t tell you?” 

“No,” says Loki. “No, he did not _tell_ me. He shouldn’t _be_ here. You should have spoken with me.” 

Peggy fixes her eyes on him, stern. Loki realizes, then, that he’s overstepped. 

“I don’t consult you on team decisions,” she informs him. “Your brother fills a space that we sorely need -- there aren’t many men in this school with the right set of skills to do what we need done. If you have a problem with him, keep it to yourself. Don’t make it _my_ problem. Are we clear?” 

Loki simmers, in rage, and frustration. He settles down to stretch, and, of course, Thor sits right next to him.

“Hello, Thor,” he says, tightly. 

“I’m glad to see you, Loki.” Thor gives him a tentative smile. “I have missed you, sorely.” 

“You joined for me.” It isn’t a question. Loki leans forward, into a split. Feels the muscles of his inner thighs pull tight. “You shouldn’t have, Thor.” 

“I will not give up.” Thor’s hand touches his shoulder, and Loki flinches. But the touch doesn’t go anywhere. Thor’s hand is warm. “I will _not_ , brother. I know your friends believe they do the best for you, but I love you. They do not know you, not as I do.” 

There is a terrible ache in Loki’s chest. His hands are shaking, subtly, as he moves into a running split, left leg forward. 

“For whatever I have done to you, brother,” continues Thor, “I am sorry.” 

Loki pulls away, violently. Meets Clint’s worried eyes, from across the gym, and clearly there’s some distress in him, something too readily apparent. Clint is there immediately, hand on Loki’s arm, guiding him away.

“Leave him alone,” says Clint. “If he doesn’t want to talk...” 

“Forgive me for saying so,” cuts in Fandral, “but it might be best not to butt into a family argument, Clint --” 

Of course Fandral would defend Thor. “It’s all right,” says Loki. “You don’t have to... We shouldn’t do this here.” 

They’re attracting attention. 

Peggy claps her hands, loudly. “Form up.” 

And, for now, it’s driven out of Loki’s mind. 

The part of the routine they’re learning today is to _Starships_ , Nicki Minaj, whom Loki personally believes is a stain on modern culture and an utter travesty of a human being, but who certainly does produce quite catchy songs. The routine is a lot of tumbling, a lot of leaps, to the point where Loki honestly wonders if he’s going to be in the air more than he’s going to be on the ground. 

“And here, on this count,” says Peggy -- “Clint, you’ll be lifting Tony Stark into the air. A single-twist single-flip, and Thor, you do the same for Loki. You’ll both practice that on the vaulting horse -- for now, just do the flip.” 

Loki hesitates. 

“Problem, Odinson?” says Peggy, briskly.

“No,” Loki lies.

“Then -- five, six, seven, eight.” 

Turns out Loki’s body is more sensitive to Loki’s moods than he wants it to be. Thor launches him with certainly enough force, but Loki isn’t prepared, isn’t trusting, and he absorbs the force instead of springing with it. He knows it’s wrong as soon as he’s left Thor’s grip, and all there is left to do is roll and try to absorb the impact on the mat.

Knocks the breath out of him. Lungs perfectly empty, and he gasps in air, shocked at the sensation. He’s never had the breath knocked out of him before, didn’t know it was so literal. 

“Loki!” It’s Clint, kneeling next to him. “You okay? Loki, talk to me.” 

Loki turns onto his back. Hisses, in pain -- there are going to be bruises from that. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s all right, nothing broken.” 

“Are you sure?” Peggy is businesslike. “Wiggle your fingers and your toes. Move for me.” 

Loki obeys, confirming that there are no serious injuries. If there were, it would be a big deal. It would be a problem. Especially with his four dances. 

“Come with me,” orders Peggy. She leads Loki into the girl’s locker room, empty right now. Loki is surprised, distantly, that it’s exactly the same as the men’s. Even down to the vaguely musty smell. 

Peggy turns to face him. “That was stupid,” she says, flatly. “And it was your fault.” 

“I wasn’t ready,” says Loki. “It won’t happen again.” 

“I think it will,” she says. “You and Thor -- I need both of you, do you understand? And I don’t want you hurting one another, for ridiculous reasons, in ridiculous ways. You should have trusted his grip.” 

“Peggy--” 

“I don’t want to lecture you on how to cope with your own family,” she interrupts him. “God knows I’m not such an expert on my own. But this team is _important_.” 

Ridiculous. Cheerleading, when they don’t even compete in any sports? 

“You have Tony Stark,” says Loki. “Perhaps I should quit.” 

“Don’t,” says Peggy. “Please. Figure this out, with your brother. Try, first.” 

It’s a side of her he’s never seen. And he hates that it affects him. He hates that he’s not sure if her emotion is genuine, or if she’s just pulling his strings. Manipulating him. He hates that it works. 

“Loki?” she pushes.

He gives a single nod. He’ll try. 

~*~

He and Tony end up the last ones in the locker room, after practice. Loki pulls on his shirt, carefully packs his bag, and closes his locker. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” says Loki.

Tony shoots him a narrow-eyed glance. “For what?” 

Loki’s turn to be puzzled. “For the dance-off.” 

“Bruce won that.” 

Tony says it with such nonchalance. Loki is genuinely taken off-guard -- he’d assumed that Tony would be moody and ill-mannered if he’d lost, so he’d assumed that, since Tony wasn’t, that he’d won. He realizes, now, that he never asked anyone. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“He’s a good dancer.” Tony’s locker closes with a clang. “Guess it means I drew the short stick, and I’m dancing with you in Phoenix, huh?” 

Ah, right. The ballet piece. Tony seems to mean it as a joke, but Loki senses a mocking undertone to it. He bristles.

“I suppose so.” 

“Catch ya later.” 

Leaving Loki alone. 

Or -- not totally alone. Because as soon as he leaves the locker room, there’s Clint. “Hey,” says Clint, awkwardly, not starting to walk with Loki, as he usually would. They should be falling into step and wordlessly heading outside, or to one of the classes, or to the cafeteria. Instead, they stand, facing one another, in the hallway.

“Can we talk?” asks Clint.

There is nothing in the universe Loki wants to do less than have a _talk_ with Clint. He remembers Clint and Natasha holding hands. He’s fairly certain that the two of them are orders of magnitude closer with one another than they are with him. 

And he’s fairly sure that a Talk means that he’s going to be out in the cold, again. And, God help him, he does _not_ want to spend the rest of his days with the female cheerleaders, no matter how much Fandral would insist that it was heaven. 

“Can it wait?” Loki is already in motion, in fact. Already leaving, slipping past a flock of young ballerinas, and --

Clint’s hand closes around his arm, and Loki is tempted, for a moment, to turn and attack. A brief and rage-white surge of violence. Instead, he goes still. 

“No,” says Clint. “It can’t.” 

His hand slides into Loki’s, and his fingers weave thickly between Loki’s slim ones. Loki finds it annoying. Intrusive. Flattering.

He lets Clint pull him through the hallways, lets the gazes of the curious and the surprised pass over them both, where they’re linked. He supposes they’re public, now. Whatever they are, it’s now something they’ve allowed the world to see. Loki can’t decide how he feels about that. Exposed, and nervous, and angry, angry for reasons he can’t really understand. 

Natasha is waiting for them on the steps outside. She moves to her feet, smooth, and joins them without a word. 

“What are we going to talk about?” asks Loki.

“Not the place,” says Natasha, shortly. Clint’s palm is vaguely sweaty, but he moves in step with Loki, and Loki’s hand has started to relax. They make their way along the sidewalk, towards the dorms.

“I saw your dances,” says Natasha, after a long moment.

“All four of them?” asks Loki, half-wry, half-despairing.

“Fury’s setting you up for failure,” she says. “Be careful.” 

“I know.” He’s already reached that conclusion himself. Assigning him a dance with Thor? Ballet with two of the best students in the school? Sif, who is closer with Thor than he’s ever been with her? 

“Wait. I wouldn’t go that far.” Clint looks uncomfortable with the insinuation.

“Jesus, Clint,” says Natasha, the words a tight sigh between her teeth. 

“He’s being hard on Loki. He’s hard on all of us.” 

“He’s making him into the dancer he needs for the Avengers,” counters Natasha. “Meaning he’s making him into a villain. A guy who’s angry and can’t take it out on anyone, so he takes it out on everyone. An _example_ , so the rest of the dancers can become a team. It’s not rocket science.” 

It’s on Loki’s lips to say _stop talking about me like I’m not here_ , but at her words, he stays silent, instead. 

“You’re paranoid,” says Clint. He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself.

“It’s served me pretty well so far,” says Natasha. “If he wanted you to learn ballet from the best, he should have paired us together. He knows we work.” 

She steps around them, to Loki’s other side. Her fingers touch the inside of Loki’s arm, stroke in little circles. The two of them touching him is vaguely dizzying. He wants to object, wants to relent. Doesn’t know what he wants. 

“This one dance isn’t everything,” insists Clint. “Fury knows he has to put out good dancers, and a lot of them, consistently. He can’t be throwing Loki away on one thing.” His eyes focus on Loki. “He can’t,” he insists, again.

Loki looks to Natasha. “Maybe,” she says. Not convinced.

They herd him into Clint’s dorm room. Loki’s eyes linger on the bed, where he remembers Clint’s body beneath his, fingers in his hair, lips on his throat. He sits back on the bed without being asked, scoots until his back is against the wall.

“So, um,” says Clint. 

Natasha takes a spot on the bed, too. Clint rubs his hands together, awkwardly. 

“Just say what you brought me here to say.” Loki has homework to do. He has a dozen other places he could be. He doesn’t need these two. He can take whatever they have to throw at him.

“So are we dating?” asks Clint. 

Loki blinks. 

“All three of us, I mean.” 

Natasha is picking dirt from underneath her fingernails. No help from that quarter. 

“Are we?” asks Loki.

“I think so,” says Clint. “Maybe. If you want.” 

“What do _you_ want?” 

Natasha sits up. “Kiss me,” she says, to Loki. The words do something visceral to him, make his heartbeat falter. Shiver. 

A glance to Clint’s eyes, and they’re dark. His tongue touches his lips. 

Loki doesn’t hesitate anymore. He braces on his knees, and leans out to kiss her. Her lips are smoother, fuller than Clint’s, a hint of damp at the center. He doesn’t get it quite right the first try, but her hands come up and direct him, and then it’s her tongue slipping into his mouth, and the inside of his belly feels tight with something like excitement. He knows Clint is watching. It makes it better. 

“So that’s a yes, then?” says Clint.

“It doesn’t have to be _dating_ ,” says Natasha. “We’re friends. We’re taking a step more. It’s not that complicated.” 

Loki tastes her on his lips. He has this feeling that she’ll be wrong, that it’ll be inevitably more complicated. But he’s willing to go along with it, for now. 

Her kisses are like sips of cold water. Like she savors each touch of his, pauses and leaves herself time to feel. Some time in this process, Clint’s arm goes around Loki, from behind, and he finds he’s tipped backwards, shifted into Clint’s lap. He can feel a lump against his thigh, where Clint is hard. 

A broad hand drifts under his shirt and toys with him, traces patterns on his skin, brushes over his nipple over and over again until it grows hard. 

He bites his lip and turns his head away from Natasha, and she kisses up his throat. 

“Do you want to...?” asks Clint.

“Not tonight,” says Natasha, sharply.

If it’s so simple, wonders Loki, why do they have to wait? 

“We shouldn’t rush into it.” She looks away, and Loki knows, they all know, that this is too intense for ‘simple’. They all matter too much. 

“She’s right.” Loki voices that, just to let them both know that he agrees. That they matter. 

Clint’s hand brushes Loki’s hair from his face, and he knows Clint feels the same. His offer of intimacy is exactly what their decline of intimacy is. 

Loki doesn’t voice it to himself. He’s afraid to.

Some time later, he’s curled up with Clint behind him. Spooning, though he’s always found that description ridiculous. Natasha is on her back, next to him; their hands are linked, resting on her belly. 

Loki breaks the silence: “I’m not Thor’s brother.” A beat. “Biologically,” he adds. “I’m adopted.” 

It feels safe to say it here, even when they’ve begun something fragile and ultimately foolish. It’s not safe, he knows, but it feels safe. And he’s never said it to anyone before, not like that. 

“Why are you angry at him?” asks Natasha. She asks her questions frankly; she always has, and Loki isn’t offended, he finds. It means she wants to know. Means she cares about the knowledge.

“He acts like it didn’t happen.” Loki leans his head back against Clint’s shoulder. “Like it doesn’t change anything.” 

Clint’s arms tighten around Loki’s middle.

“Does it change anything?” asks Natasha. Her eyes are piercing, like a bird of prey.

“Yes,” says Loki. “It changes everything.” 

She nods, as though this makes perfect sense. And maybe, to her, it does. Even though most days Loki doesn’t even understand it. 

“Every time he calls me brother...” Every time, that little surge of hurt/fury. Thor prods at Loki’s open wounds, and he doesn’t even realize it, and his crime is that he is so callous. He never understood Loki. Not ever. 

“You’re nothing like him,” says Natasha. Another statement of fact. She doesn’t mean it as a compliment or an insult, and that in itself is comforting. “But he probably thinks that pretending it didn’t happen is what you want.” 

“He’s an idiot,” snaps Loki.

“What else is new?” says Nat.

Point taken, Loki supposes. At least now he has... a strategy. A way to approach the inevitable conversation with Thor.

And, he thinks, as he relaxes further into Clint’s grip, there’s some strength that wasn’t there before, too.


	7. Down the avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to the dances; there are new developments on Loki's parentage.

“To start off: the two of you have gone through a bad breakup.” 

Loki’s arms are crossed over his chest. He’s decidedly not looking at Sif, dressed in t-shirt and clinging shorts. 

“News to me,” he remarks.

“Watch your mouth,” says Fury. “Bad breakup. You,” with a finger at Loki, “couldn’t let yourself acknowledge that you hated her. She,” pointing at Sif, “didn’t understand a damn thing about you.” 

“What’s the song?” asks Sif.

“You’ve heard it,” says Fury. “Somebody That I Used to Know. Most all the dance consists of the two of you side-by-side but distant. Those parts, you won’t be looking at each other, but you have to be perfectly coordinated. And even when you are looking at each other, you never touch. Sif’s dancing in response to the male voice, Loki, you’re the female voice. Got it?” 

“Got it.”

“Yes.” 

“We’ll start with the entrance.” 

The choreography, Loki understands, is fairly simple. What’s difficult isn’t learning it but perfecting it; he and Sif have subtle differences in timing that leaves them all out of synch. When he tries to slow down and speed up accordingly, he usually just ends up tripping over himself. 

Which, of course, yields an eyeroll from Sif, and an exasperated sigh. 

She probably doesn’t want to be dancing with someone two years behind. She, in particular, most definitely doesn’t want to be dancing with Loki. 

Fury ignores all the irritated remarks, and focuses his attention on Loki. Constant criticism. “Higher arm, Loki. Remember Sif balances differently -- mimic her posture but not her musculature. Match her movement.” Loki this, Loki that. 

He leaves the first hour-long rehearsal _angry_. Fairly certain that if the lesson had lasted five minutes longer he would have screamed at the both of them. He makes his way quickly out into the quad. Sif will probably be in the cafeteria, so he decides to skip lunch entirely. Perches on a bench under one of the thicker groups of trees, crosses his legs, and opens up the book he’s supposed to have read already for his afternoon classes. 

A presence settles on the bench next to him. He assumes it’s Clint, doesn’t look up.

“Hey.” 

Loki twitches away from the voice, snapping the book closed. Steve Rogers. An exasperated sigh between his teeth. “I,” he says, “am _busy_.” 

“I heard Sif was pretty harsh on you this morning.” 

“I have some perhaps startling news for you,” says Loki, curtly, “but Sif and I are not fond of each other.” 

“You’re wrong.” Steve’s eyes are slightly narrowed, squinted against the sunlight. He’s not looking at Loki. 

“I’m _wrong_?” 

“She’s mad at you,” says Steve. “Because she’s worried about you.” 

“You mean she’s worried about Thor.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

Irritation rises in Loki again. He can’t deal with this right now. 

“You and your brother,” he says. “You’re family.” 

Loki bundles up his books and goes. He finds another bench. He only glances up once, when Steve moves. Watches, with a mix of satisfaction and disappointment as Steve returns to the cafeteria. 

He doesn’t know what he expected. 

Ms. Hill’s methods are a little different from Fury’s. She has Loki, Tony and Jane sit on the mat against the wall of the studio. And she flicks on the song.

_Superstar._ Two singers Loki hasn’t heard of, Tegan and Sara. The music is... threatening. Lyrics that at first seem fairly benign turn into cold predictions. What it’s like to be a superstar. It has a darkness to it; Loki likes it, quickly. 

Tony raises his hand, after the song is done. “Is this because all three of us have enormous egos?” 

“Speak for yourself,” says Jane, but there’s a little smile to it. Unlike the way he and Sif sniped at each other.

Loki feels suddenly, painfully isolated, and he wonders if this wasn’t Fury’s intention all along. 

The concept is simple. No story, like the painful breakup of Sif and Loki’s dance; this one is just the three of them backstabbing one another, trying to steal the stage, movements more and more frantic as the song goes on. 

“Great,” says Tony, “this is going to be _awesome_.” 

“This is not about your egos,” warns Ms. Hill. “You’re pretending to steal the stage from one another. But the dance depends on all three of you, and you have to remember that.” She looks particularly at Loki with this statement. 

Loki, the least experienced in ballet. 

After the lesson, and the last class of the day, he goes looking for Natasha. Finds her alone in one of the studios, music playing. Loki can’t quite parse the lyrics, but he can watch her, through the glass of the door. Leans against the doorjamb, cheek against the glass as he watches her work through perfect ballet form, exquisite muscle tension, emotion in every movement. 

She crumples to the ground, contorts to her feet again, all of it smooth. She’s more flexible than Loki is, but, he sees now, the same kind of skill. The same talent. 

Before she’s finished, he slips away. 

Finds himself knocking on Thor’s door. It opens, and Thor gapes at the sight of Loki, his schoolbag over his shoulder. 

Loki brushes past him and settles on the bed. Thor is doing homework -- wonder of wonders -- on the desk, his laptop open, along with a chemistry textbook. So Loki opens his own book, still unfinished, and curls up there.

“Loki,” starts Thor --

“I don’t want to speak with you.” He doesn’t really know what he wants, in fact. Just maybe that the two of them could be silent, for a while? Silent in the same place. Be something other than bitter enemies; be something that Loki can pretend is a shadow of what it once was. 

He’s there two hours. Gets three texts from Clint: where r u??, meetup for dinner in five, nat says you didnt have lunch today what’s up?

Just one from Nat: See you tomorrow.

Loki thinks of _Superstar_ , and idle remarks turned to threats. 

Thor keeps shooting him worried looks, and eventually Loki finishes the book. There’s nothing else left for him to do, really. He could fall asleep -- he used to do that, in Thor’s bed. He liked the smell of it. He’d worshipped his brother when he was little. 

Now the idea just seems faintly repugnant.

He moves to his feet. And, before he knows it, he’s enveloped in a bear hug. 

Gradually, his muscles loosen, and he presses his face into the curve of Thor’s shoulder. He feels so, so desperately lonely, and he doesn’t even know why. He has friends here. He has Clint and Natasha. There’s no reason for him to be ignoring them, but he is. 

“I love you, Loki,” says Thor. 

Loki peels himself away, finally, and escapes. 

The next morning, he goes to the studio expecting Fury, and all he sees is Bruce. 

“Hi,” says the mild-mannered older student. “You get stretched, and then we’ll get started?” 

Loki slips his bag off his shoulder. “Where’s Fury?” 

“Had some trouble scheduling this,” says Bruce. Waves a hand: “You know that. I asked him if I could choreograph, instead of him, and he agreed.” 

Loki blinks.

“Surprised?” asks Bruce.

“A bit,” he says. “Did he give you any direction?” as he slides down into a stretch.

“He gave me the song,” Bruce says. “And told me to teach you a thing or two.” A smile, which Loki greets with suspicion. “ _Little Talks_ , by the way.” 

“What?” 

“The song. That’s its name.” 

Dancing with Bruce is surprisingly relaxing. It’s more hands-on than either of his other dances, though no guarantees on the hip-hop one with Darcy and Thor this afternoon. For some reason Loki doesn’t understand, Bruce is choreographing Loki as the star of this dance, as a man slowly going insane while Bruce pushes him the final few steps. Bruce is quick to adjust, and doesn’t take long to grasp where Loki’s talents lie. 

He leaves feeling satisfied. Turns a corner, and almost runs straight into Sif. 

They stare at one another for a moment, and then she moves to brush straight past him. He reaches out, and snags her arm.

“I think you should apologize.” 

There’s a guilty look on her face. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” 

Loki holds his hands up. “Fine.” 

“Loki -- Wait.” 

He pauses.

“We need to meet in the middle,” she says. “The dance won’t work otherwise.”

He crosses his arms. He won’t be the first to give a little. She has to be. 

They stare each other down, for a long thirty seconds.

And then Loki, without a word, turns and goes. 

Clint and Natasha settle around him out in the quad, today, Clint dropping a sandwich on top of Loki’s books. 

Message received and understood. Loki unwraps it, takes a bite.

A few minutes of idle chat later, Clint clears his throat. “You know,” he says, “we’re happy to give Thor the cold shoulder for no actual reason, it’s fine. But I was just wondering, you know, if maybe someday you might consider -- like, thinking about telling us what’s wrong there?” 

“Wondering,” Loki echoes, “if maybe someday I might consider?” The number of qualifiers in that question...

Natasha snorts.

“Yeah. You know.” 

Loki takes a long drink of water, and considers. “Two years ago, I found out I was adopted.” 

Clint and Natasha exchange glances.

“I had a ... difficult time accepting it.” An understatement. “And Thor ignored me entirely. He spent the summer with Sif and Fandral, he used any excuse he could to get out of the house, and I was alone.” 

Feels good to say it, oddly. It’s been locked up for a long time. 

He shivers, squeezes his hand on the water bottle. “And I think my -- Odin and Frigga were lying to me.” 

“About being adopted?” asks Clint, carefully.

“No.” He shakes his head. That’s apparent enough. Especially obvious in hindsight. He’s nothing like any of them. “About how it happened. They told me I was left on their doorstep.” 

Natasha’s brows furrow.

“A story so ridiculous it might actually be true,” says Clint.

“Which must have been what they were thinking,” says Loki. “That giving me an implausible story would make me more likely to believe it -- that I would think that if they were lying they’d use an ordinary lie.” 

“And it’s a story that just happens to make finding your parents impossible,” remarks Natasha.

Loki nods, slowly.

“Not impossible.” Clint gives Natasha a significant glance.

“What?” asks Loki.

“Not the time,” murmurs Natasha.

“ _Tell me._ ” There’s a sudden harshness in Loki’s tone that startles him. He’s shaking, again.

“We just thought,” says Clint --

“Circus folk,” says Natasha. 

“ _What_?” 

“Explains your agility,” says Clint, “natural flexibility, the way you pick up weird skills so fast. It’s okay -- Natasha’s family was into acrobatics before they monied up and did ballet. And I rode with a circus for years.” 

It casts the both of them in a new light. And it casts their friendship with him in a new light. Loki feels as though it should shock him, but instead he just feels numb, at his core. 

He’s not all there during the hip-hop dance. Set to some trashy girl rapper talking about starships, which do _not_ fly, in fact; their motion is much more like that of a submarine than like an airplane, though somewhat unlike either. Thus every time the lyrics in the chorus come around, it bothers Loki. 

“Relax, Loki,” says Coulson, over and over again. “You’re stiff. This movement is about controlling one muscle group at a time, and it has to look natural.” 

Thor and Darcy, of course, master it in a few lessons. Loki is at a disadvantage in every single one of his four dances. 

Thor follows him, afterward. Outside the building’s side entrance, catches Loki’s shoulder.

Surprising himself, Loki savagely chops at the inside of Thor’s arm. Throws a punch at Thor’s jaw, in a fit of rage.

Thor catches it, of course. Loki probably swung wrong, or telegraphed the motion. Thor knows what he’s doing. Loki doesn’t. 

“Loki!” Thor is appalled. Or startled. Or angry. Loki can’t tell anymore.

“Let me _go_.” 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” He grips Loki so hard that Loki can feel the bones of his hand grind. He slams his free palm into Thor’s stomach, but Thor’s grip doesn’t abate. 

“Tell me, Loki,” grunts Thor, “tell me what it is I have done, and I will make it right. But I cannot, until you say.” 

He knees Thor in the testicles. 

Thor goes to his knees, with a strangled sound, but he still doesn’t let go, no matter how Loki tugs. 

Finally, Loki bursts out: “I know they lied!” 

“Lied about what.” 

Loki doesn’t want to laugh, but he does. The sheer strain in his voice is funny, even with the edge of hysteria that Loki feels. 

“Not funny.” 

“M- mom and dad.” He breathes out, and sits down on the steps, so that Thor isn’t tugging his arm out of its socket. “When they said they found me on the doorstep.” 

Thor wheezes for a couple of minutes. Loki waits. 

“I remember,” gasps Thor, finally, “when they brought you in. That’s how they found you, Loki.” 

“How could you?” Loki snaps. “You were two years old.” 

“I was six,” corrects Thor. 

Loki’s head whips around, focuses on Thor. “ _Six_?” he asks.

“You were four,” he says. 

“Old enough to talk?” 

“Old enough to remember.” He crawls next to Loki, sits on the step, gingerly. “I am sorry, brother. I thought you knew.” 

“Why don’t I remember, then?” he challenges. “Why would I just forget?” A beat, then, “Didn’t I _miss_ \--” ...my real parents? 

“I remember you were sad. So I didn’t let you leave my side.” 

That, Loki remembers. Trailing behind Thor, holding onto his hand tight. 

Loki takes a breath. “Do you recall anything about... a circus?” What if Nat and Clint are right?

Thor frowns. 

Loki sits up, straighter. “You do,” he says. “You remember.” 

“I remember our Father once took me to a circus, but nothing more.” 

It’s a start.

Suddenly, possibilities have opened. Avenues of investigation, whereas before Loki had despaired of making any progress without Frigga and Odin’s legal approval. 

“I’m going home this weekend,” he announces to Thor.

“To accuse our parents of stealing you?” Thor asks.

“To go to the _library_ ,” corrects Loki.


End file.
